


in a sky of a million stars

by agentzombie



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, guardian ocs being gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:32:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentzombie/pseuds/agentzombie
Summary: "Welcome back," says the kestrel, "you've been dead for, like, a billion years, and I will explain, but for now we don't have the luxury."





	1. twilight gap

I wake to the barking of gunshots.

Consciousness is a fleeting thing, pressing in on all sides and slipping through my fingers when I obediently take hold. Distantly, the sharpness of a panicked cry echoes around me, and for a moment this cry is everything I am, everything that surrounds me, everything I know.

A shape flits in front of me. It buzzes with life. It's a kestrel, I think absurdly. Her colors are all smudged together and her movements are all wrong, her cry is all wrong, but it's a kestrel.

"—up, Guardian—"

The gunshots are back, and it slams me into consciousness with a full-bodied jolt.

"—on your feet, we don't have much time—!"

I blink the fog from my eyes, flex the fingers on both hands. They creak and shudder as I move them experimentally, and the bird's voice captures my attention once more while I discover that my legs also function with relative ease.

"Welcome back," says the kestrel, "you've been dead for, like, a billion years, and I will explain, but for now we don't have the luxury."

She is not, in fact, a kestrel, or a bird of any description, but — light. She's light. She's my light.

The rest? I'm holding her to to it.

A bullet made of something not conventional glances off the corner of the wooden shack I realize I'm inside of.

"I'm Kestrel. I'm your Ghost. And you're in hot water," says the little light. "This place will be surrounded soon. That will be bad for both of us. We need to leave. Like, yesterday."

That, as one would imagine, is all the motivation I need to get my feet underneath me. Gravelly voices shouting in a language I don't understand are snapping through the ruined neighborhood like thunder as I find my balance and wobble to what used to be the front door of the shack.

The land is drenched in chaos. It chokes the air with a sense of unfiltered desperation that doesn't wholly belong to me, and something—something is wrong. Something very important is very, very wrong.

Kestrel says they're Fallen. They skulk about like insects, scuttling up walls, uncannily humanoid in shape but some donning extra arms, clutching rifles in their claws. My heart climbs halfway up my throat. I'm not armed.

"This way," Kestrel beckons, flitting around the back of the half-standing shack we had vacated. I surprise myself with how little effort it takes to melt into the thick vegetation gathered there. My Ghost shepherds me over a small hill, where she slows to a stop and I follow suit, crouching in the relative cover provided by a cluster of leafy bushes. A small expanse of clearing lay just ahead, scorched and scarred, still smoldering from what must have been a fearsome battle. Once more, I'm reminded of my lack of weapon and feel myself tensing with unease—my back feels simply exposed, vulnerable in a way I'm unable to place, and my chest tightens with panic as gunshots ring once more and voices bellow close by—very close by.

Kestrel is peering through the bushes. "That tower? We get there, we're home free. We just need to g—" She's cut off when the world shakes.

It's so loud. It's so, so unbelievably loud, the loudest thing I can fathom, and it makes the earth beneath me tremble.

When I can focus again, I find that I have Kestrel clutched protectively against my chest. A fire roars from the direction we had come from, early wisps of its smoke licking the sodden sky. I don't need Kestrel to suggest we get moving. I'm already back on my feet.

Rifles crack and something else explodes and erupts into flame, but I endeavor for the Tower. The Tower is safe. I keep Kestrel tight to my chest, minding an unrelenting gut instinct to keep her safe.

And then someone yanks, hard, on my scarf.

The Ghost in my hands is shrieking, saying something that I need to hear, need to understand, but stars are exploding behind my eyes as I fight to roll into a stance I can fight in. When I blink the glitter from my eyes, it's to find nothing. There's nothing here and I'm alone in the weeds, crouched like an animal.

"No, you need to RUN, guardian, it's right—"

Something smacks into my spine, a million pounds of agony, and I'm on the ground again. Kestrel has skittered across the ground, knocked from my grasp, but she re-orients herself quickly and vanishes into thin air.

I twist to face my assailant once more, groping for something, _anything_ , to use as a weapon, but... nothing. Nothing stands before me, nothing but a shimmer to suggest I've imagined it.

A voice follows. My heart plummets. It's not human.

It laughs in a tongue I will hear in the dark for the rest of my days.

The shimmer moves around me, and I follow its movements closely, puzzled and shaken, as the pain ebbs to a dull throb.

<I'm healing you,> Kestrel's voice reassures from nowhere. <Run. Get out of there or... shit, guardian, I _just_ found you. > She sounds strained. Twelve different levels of bad wrap around my heart and squeezes, like a hand made of solid ice.

Something is approaching. Its heavy footsteps rattle my bones while Kestrel begs me to get up, but I can't move my feet. I can't move my arms. I can't move. I can't fight. I can't run.

It's _tall_. It has too many eyes, too many arms, a voice deep enough to rattle apart a god, and it looks down at me like I'm worth less than the dirt caked on the bottoms of its boots.

I find my feet, pivot, and pounce, but it's too little, too late. The butt of a rifle I can't see cracks against the side of my skull, and a cacophony of rumbling laughs erupt on all sides as I crumple to the ground in a useless, trembling heap.

I don't get back up. There is so much pain, so much noise, and not a stretch of it I can make sense of. For the longest minute of my life I have one thought: I haven't even been given the chance to prove myself and I'm going to die, right here at the feet of a gang of Fallen and their terrifying ringleader—

—who doesn't utter a peep when when he collapses, a fizzling hole squirting dark blood between his many eyes.

Three flashes of gold, so bright and so warm, cleanly take out three Fallen before any one of them can so much as turn, like bolts of lightning made of fire, crackling with power. The survivors make a swipe for their guns but are dead before they reach their belts in tandem with six quick gunshots, a blisteringly loud fan of bullets in rapid succession.

Kestrel sighs in barely suppressed relief at the same time an armored figure jogs into my field of vision, and she's _brilliant_ —her back straight, her pistol smoking, her head angled in an emotion I can only describe as concern.

I decide that I don't like the way concern looks on her helmet, so I force my hands underneath me and push until I hopefully look significantly less pathetic.

"Guardian, do you have a gun?" she asks by way of greeting, and I blink intelligently, a plaintive attempt to organize my scrambled thoughts.

"No," I reply, only I don't because no voice comes out and instead Kestrel is answering the question, having appeared over my shoulder.

"No, ma'am. Didn't even have time to make a knife."

A gun is shoved into my hands. Before I've even digested this new tactile information I've set about the motions of checking the chamber and clicking the safety off and on. It's a sidearm, and its weight in my hands is instantly comforting. The caped goddess offers a hand to pull me up and steady me when I nearly sway.

I just woke up. I don't understand anything, I don't know what's going on, but I do know that I feel a swell of affection surge through me when she nudges me playfully, a smile undoubtedly hiding beneath her mask. "Gear up, partner. Time to go."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't expect anyone to read this so it means a lot to me that you're here


	2. tree car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and I watch the shadows race across the field like the great teeth of a beast—

We won, I think.

The air is electric with celebration, and it crackles even miles from the Tower. Choked up with respect for the lost, but through the thick of tears, chins are high with pride. Despite our losses, Guardians toast and laugh.

Gaia has seen this all before. She's seen loss, she's seen gain. She walks with her back as straight as the day she became my hero.

The world is so _heavy_ , but maybe victory just hasn't sunk in yet.

Only thirty-two hours have passed since my Ghost gave me the gift of rebirth, and thirty-two hours of fighting ensued, but thirty-two hours ago, Gaia became my partner and for thirty-two hours has not once left my side.

I watched her die. Twice. I watched her die to the hands of these vile interlopers we call Fallen, and both times my heart stopped. I fought harder than I thought I was capable.

Both times, her Ghost brought her back. Both times, she got back up and fought next to me once more.

That's when I learned I can't die, that no Guardian with a healthy Ghost can die—not really. Not permanently. When a bullet pierced through the hard carbon fiber of my skull, I awoke to Kestrel's soft Light, and to Gaia's smooth helmet. She helped me up. We fought on.

I sag with the adrenaline dump—head spinning, strength thoroughly sapped—but the Tower is safe and so _brilliant_ against the twilight sky, so I stubbornly put one weary foot in front of the other for miles and miles still.

Though when I stumble and sway, Gaia is there beside me as I regain my stability.

"We're not in a hurry, partner," Gaia drawls, a smile in the lilt of her voice. "Go on, take a second."

A few steps to the left and I settle myself heavily on a charred fallen tree, sufficiently embarrassed and supremely thankful for my lack of skin, because if I were human I would surely be blushing _very_ deep. How in the worlds is this woman not tired?

When I glance up to attempt to communicate just that, my eyes wander past Gaia and to the oddity tangled up in the top of a particularly sturdy tree, gnarled with knots and twisty branches that reach about and sway gently in the breeze. It dwarfs the surrounding foliage not only in its passably superior height but in its muscularity.

I imagine it would need to be muscular in order to support the weight of the thing it's carrying. The oddity is squarish and rusty, quite incontestably man-made, and despite its unquestionable difference in purpose and appearance, it is cradled snugly in the distorted arms of the near-top of tree as though nature simply accepted its existence.

Weirdly, I'm drawn to it.

When I have Gaia's attention I incline my head in its direction, and she curiously follows my gaze. "That's... a vehicle from the Golden Age. I've never seen... how did it get up there?" she mutters, idly scratching the back of her neck.

Kestrel appears in a quick flash of light, and I'm endlessly thankful. I'm pretty sure it's her fault that I'm unable to speak, but that's a question for a later date. "Wanna camp out for a few hours up in that... tree car?" she translates, apparently equally perplexed by the phenomena. "Nike's exhausted."

Gaia's gaze snaps back to me, to Kestrel and then back to me, before understanding crosses her features and she nods. "It's been a long day," she concedes.

"You're welcome," jabs Kestrel, and I playfully shove her away as I heave myself upright.

Gaia climbs first, jumping and crawling from branch to branch like an acrobat, and I'm painfully aware of my significantly less agile clamber to the top; but to her credit Gaia doesn't tease when I flop totally 100% gracefully into one of the vehicle's roached-out seats.

I imagine they were leather once, but have since degraded and become a host for moss and a myriad of smaller plants. The cushion is a relief and I sink serenely into relaxation—possibly the first time in my short consciousness that I've had the pleasure of experiencing such a thing.

When I open my eyes, though, I'm greeted with the undisputed definition of beauty.

The moment bears yet more firsts as I gaze upon the massive and mysterious grace of the Traveler, peacefully overlooking the City underneath. Not far off proudly stands the Tower. Our "tree car", I realize, marks the crest of a rolling hill, and the ceiling of the forest stretches before us, becoming more sparse and eventually disappearing altogether as it reaches the wall that surrounds the city.

I'm utterly enthralled. Nothing—not a single thing can possibly hold more beauty.

It hits me with all the force of a gunshot that _this is my home._ This is the place I will protect at the cost of anything. Inexplicably, I'm overcome with emotion as the waning sunset casts long, purple shadows about the buildings, the Tower, and the graceful anomaly floating above.

"What a good call," Gaia breathes, and I'm reminded of her company with a start. She's removed her helmet, and her face is aglow with enchantment and it occurs to me that this Guardian may be just as alluring as the picture of the sun setting over our home.

And as the light of the sun trickles out of the sky I've not looked away from my companion.

I don't know how much time has passed but when I'm next aware of myself my eyes have slipped shut, and I hear Gaia shift in her seat. "Get some rest, Nike. I'll keep watch."

\--

It stands tall against an expanse of black.

I know what it is. I don't know what it is. That information is stored somewhere, I know what it is. I don't remember what it is.

But it's important. It's significant, somehow, and I need to get there. To see it. To remember it.

The sun sets over the mountainous backdrop, and the landscape's jagged edge casts a sharp shadow. The sun is dipping behind them very fast, and I watch the shadows race across the field like the great teeth of a beast—

I'm swathed in shadow. Like someone snuffed out a lantern. The tower remains. I'm reminded of its significance. I know it's significant. I know its name. _I remember its name._

I take a step forward but my path is blocked. The figure is rigid, back as straight as the day we met. She blocks my path.

Her mask is off, and the expression on her face is unreadable. She raises her gun.

I raise my empty fists, and I charge. Her gun is in my hands. Gaia is on the ground.

An army of figures step up next, not a single face I recognize. (They're significant, I know their names. I know— _I remember_ —)

I raise Gaia's gun and I fire. I fire twice. I empty my clip—

I jolt awake with a sharp intake of breath that stings my mechanical lungs. The inside of my head is loud, so loud—

And Gaia's hand— _Gaia's_ —is on top of mine and the noise _stops_. Just like that, silence rings between my ears.

Gaia's face (—holding a gun she needs to move she needs to die laying motionless on the ground—) betrays a twinge of guilt as she smiles softly.

"You know, that's the first time I've ever seen an Exo sleep."

(—the tower the mountains the teeth the army—)

"You're still... new. There's a lot you're going to learn." Leaning back in her seat, she places her feet up on the ruined dashboard until she hums serenely in satisfaction.

"The first is that dream. I don't know what it is you see but I know it's fucked up."

My racing heart makes me think of an animal in a cage, fighting for freedom, and I flex my trembling hands into fists and back to gain some semblance of control because—

—because I killed her and _I didn't even think_.

"The stars came out while you were sleeping," Gaia continues. "You'll see them up close pretty soon but... to be honest, I'll never get tired of how they look from down here."

I take a breath in and hold it. Close my eyes, release it. Open them again to see a million tiny lights burning overhead.

"When you're up at night, come find me, and we'll stargaze. Hunters don't sleep. By default." She lifts one shoulder and drops it idly. "It's not all bad, with company."

You stayed, I say. I don't say. She understands anyway.

"I knew you'd appreciate the company. Also... really, I've literally never seen an Exo sleep."


	3. not here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a response to a ficlet my girlfriend wrote from gaia's point of view. many questions will be answered in a chapter or two, but i should still preface this by explaining the context: gaia was part of the mission that took place where guardians attempted to take back earth's moon from Hive forces. the event is called mare imbrium. mare imbrium did Not Go Well and there were very heavy losses. (that's about all i know on that bit of lore tbh forgive me)

She came straight to me. Made landfall and and went straight to me—

The breath hitches in my throat before I can stop it, and hiss it out quickly.

Not me. Not here, not right now, not when she needs me. I wasn't there. I need to be brave. I need to be strong.

—I wasn't there.

We have together suffered many long, tearful nights since then; various breathless, panicked versions of "I don't know what I would have done if you were there and something happened to you, Nike—"

It scares her more than anything ever has. There is something inside me that knows without a shadow of a doubt that nothing has ever brought this Guardian such distress.

I watch the cold hands of anxiety grip her, her barely suppressed shudders, every time she reads it on my face. I don't need a voice to talk to Gaia. I have never needed a voice to talk to Gaia because she can read me like an open book, and " _I should have been there_ " is scrawled on every page.

I wish I had been there. _I should have been there._

There may have been a list of reasons as to why I wasn't but shadows only Gaia can see plague her eyes and this—

_This is my hero._

My gleaming hero, proudly grasping the power of every sun in the galaxy in her fist, the strength of every solar system combined, the luminance of a supernova—

She's falling to pieces before my eyes.

\---

I learned posture from her. I learned everything from her, come to that, but posture is in my mind and I diligently stand up straighter when Gaia is close by.

She doesn't stand so straight these days.

I catch myself before my breath hitches this time. I must be strong for her. I need to be what she, presently, cannot.

I stand up straight.

A second spend apart is a second lost to insecurity, and proximity releases some of the tension in her shoulders. In like manner, having her within arms reach, where I can make certain she's safe, tames my relentlessly roiling nerves. Fortunately for us it isn't necessary to go anywhere the other can't follow.

Gaia frequents a civilian bar in the City, one that is sparsely populated and has a bartender who would commit a homicide for any one of his regulars, Guardian or otherwise.

Many Guardians seldom visit the City simply to mingle and make friends, but Gaia is a different breed. Her habit of conversing with civilians began long before I was awakened and it pulls her to the bustle of the City like a magnet to this day, despite the Mare Imbrium disaster gnawing on her mind.

The vibrance of the City and especially Enek's Bar is better company than the Tower's mournful, empty state anyhow.

The afternoon sky is low and wet, our cloaks providing little protection from the downpour as we walk the lengthy hike to Enek's. Neither of us make to summon our sparrows. Some days, you're just meant to be soggy.

\---

Enek's hospitable smile shifts knowingly when he welcomes us. Mare Imbrium is no secret, but the Awoken man spares us the questions and waves us to our regular seats, prepares our regular drinks. He always knows what conversations to start, what topics to leave, which people to steer away from us—regardless of the mood of the day. Gaia did, after all, choose Enek's Bar as her favorite for good reason.

He slides something strong and carbonated in front of Gaia, who takes a swig and nearly melts with satisfaction. My drink is significantly less alcoholic and a little bit fruity, something I never did learn the name of but only grew to love more over our many visits; and Enek nailed it as he always does.

Gaia is finished with her first drink within seconds, and perhaps I'm not specifically well-known for being calm and level-headed, but I'm instantaneously reminded that something about today is... off.

With a frown, Enek goes about preparing one more, and I've suddenly abandoned my appetite for drinking. The room buzzes with... something. It could be in my head but the storm outside is making itself abundantly known, knocking adamantly on the windows and the roof, as if to remind those seeking shelter that it doesn't go away when you close your eyes (rapping on the door pounding on the door crashing through the door, a torrent of storm water and demons, of thunder and noise) —

I take a breath. Close my eyes. Release it.

Gaia's got her head in her hands, and my stomach does some acrobatics as I'm overcome with the urge to reach out to her but—(touch her face stroke her hair squeeze her hand)—but now's not the time.

(How am I to know that's what she needs? I can't assume physical affection is something she wants, not when—not when I'm not thinking clearly and everything is still so fresh—)

My aborted motion to adjust her disheveled cape becomes a grope for my glass.

_I want to help you_ , I can't say. _I want to make this easier for you, but I'm terrified that I'll scare you away._

Gaia forces out a shaky sigh as she lifts her head once more, and I feel it like the business end of a serrated blade as she all but drains what's left of her cocktail because this isn't right—this isn't the way this should be going. _This is the mouth of the rabbit hole_ , something inside me pleads. _This is a bad road. She will fall in. Don't let her fall in._

Gaia lifts her hand to summon Enek. My hand is on her shoulder. Earth has stopped turning—rain has stopped falling, music has stopped playing, voices have stopped chatting—but I need to do this. _I need to tell her this._

The moment is the longest of my life. The contact has created a charge that I'm nearly certain I'm imagining, crackling silently as though I've summoned the Arc on the astral plane, and the world jerks back into motion with Gaia's response of unfiltered surprise, turning rapidly to face me.

Tear tracks stain her cheeks, eyes wide with shock.

Heroes don't deserve to look so fragile.

She hears me. She always does. The shock slowly dissolves off her face, and I give her a gentle squeeze but I do not dare lift my hand.

"There was no light in that pit," she whispers. "None. I was ready t'die."

I have never sat so still in all of my days. _You found the Light again_ , I tell her silently.

"Then I thought've you. Your Light pulled m'out." She visibly struggles for coherence, and maybe it's the haze of the buzz or maybe it's the words but she doesn't need to speak them. I am, after all, fluent in the language of silence.

Her eyes are round and vulnerable and I feel like I've learnt something I have no right to know, like Gaia has cracked open the door but I would overstay my welcome if I stepped inside, and to abandon her porch would mean I may never see the door open again.

I make a decision, forged of the strength I wish I had, bravery I scraped from the bottom of the well—a decision I immediately regret when a very firm hand pushes into my shoulder, stopping me short of pulling her closer.

She's done nothing more than raise her palm and put the brakes on the motion, but I freeze like a gun has been put to my head, my guts a writhing nest of maggots and dread.

Gaia has pulled the veil back over her eyes, sufficiently slamming the door of vulnerability so fast that I'm left wondering whether it was ever open to begin with—was it ever open to begin with? (—and that's not the reaction I was expecting that's not what I wanted that's not what I _meant_ —)

She gently, almost robotically, shrugs out of my paper grip, and as she turns and walks stiffly to the door, my hand is hovering uselessly where her shoulder used to be until she's marched out of sight.

And sound—rain voices whispers _rain_ —slams back into me like a grenade has detonated between my ears.


	4. stand up and run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "—for the love of the Traveller and all of the things it has touched with its Light, STOP."

  
I fucked up.

Kestrel flits around my head, babbling and nudging and I ignore every word because I don't deserve to hear it.

I fucked up.

"I fucked up," I tell my Ghost with the silence I was given, with a voice that doesn't exist. "I fucked it up."

She says something I don't bother to listen to. Not when she prods my hands with her sharp edges, not when she demands I calm the fuck down, and not when she asks me to, either.

"I really, genuinely fucked it up." I just want to heal her wounds, lend her my shoulder, hold her hands—

A Guardian doesn't have time for—

Gaia is a hero, an honorable Guardian who has risked life and limb for her home and her friends and the Traveller and hasn't the time of day to _hold hands with this pitiful underdog she's adopted._

Look at you, I scold myself bitterly. Crying over something so trivial. She'd be disgusted by your weakness.

"—for the love of the Traveller and all of the things it has touched with its Light, _stop_."

I do. I stop.

"Nike. Look at me."

I do. I look up. Kestrel is a russet beacon of stability.

"Gaia is not mad. Gaia is scared." My Ghost softens her voice, satisfied with my attention. "You are what she needs."

She doesn't need me.

"She does," says Kestrel. "More than you think."

I don't want to lose her.

"She's not lost, Guardian."

A small white box is placed in front of me, replacing the half-finished drink I nearly forgot about. (Completely forgot about.) The cordial barkeep taps it gingerly, his smile sympathetic but flavored with an air of warm confidence. "It's on the house today, Nike. Go talk."

\---

I go talk.

This may come as a surprise, but I have run many times, for a variety of reasons—in my line of work it's sort of in the job description. I have seen blood and combat and I have known the grips of heart-numbing fear, and I haven't even been around that long.

Yet none of that compares to the throes of panic that compel my legs to _move_. I feel none of it—not the rain whipping my face, not the thunder rolling in the skies, not my boots on the ground.

Enek's white box is close to my chest, sheltered from the torrent by a layer of cape, soggy as it is—though all of that is second to the destination.

The woods envelope me as I tear through, and when I finally skid to a stop it occurs to me that I never had a destination in mind when I stumbled out of the bar—

—yet our gnarled tree stretches above, reaching to pull me under its shadow as I catch my precious breath.

At the base of our humble home stands the Guardian I ran so fast to catch, and she gazes up at our perch as though lost in her hometown. Her damp hood it drawn, but does nothing for the biting chill brought by the storm—she's shaking, and I can see it even from several yards away.

I yearn to reach out.

_I fucked up,_ I shouted. _Gaia, I fucked up and I need to make it right._

My soundless voice doesn't carry but I don't dare step closer. I've done enough damage. Gaia is rigid and unmoving.

_I want to help. More than you will ever understand I want to take this weight off of you and I want—_

Rain drips from her cloak.

_I want to be, to you, what you are to me._

Her aimless gaze slides haltingly down to the base of the trunk and _I don't want to lose you._

"I... Nike."

Her murmur is so quiet, so fragile, that at any other moment I might have mistaken it for a shift in the wind, a whisper in the leaves. But I hear it and I stop and the wind stops and the rain stops and the thunder stops, and I don't move.

She turns her head but her unseeing gaze snags on something invisible to me. I recognize the motion as the part of her that wants to turn and face me, and it's smothered by fear too unspecific to put a label on.

"Nike, I... need help."

I do move, now. I step forward, and I don't stop until I've walked into her sight, until I can see her wide, glassy eyes and lock them securely with my own.

_You went straight here..._

She could have run to the tower. To the EDZ, to any place on Earth. Hell, she could have boarded her ship and fled the planet, yet here—

—here she is. She ran to safety. She ran _home_.

Something akin to steel weaves its way through my chest, and I take my hero's hand from where it shakes at her side, and I squeeze it.

_I'm right here._

Rain does nothing to mask the tears that well up in her eyes, and when I pull her gently closer, this time she lets me.

 


End file.
